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Poets suffer occasional delusions of angelhood and find themselves condemned to express it in the bric-a-brac tongues of the human world. Lots of them go mad.

Glen Duncan

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Glen Duncan
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 17
Author
Bookseller
Novelist
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Glen A. Duncan
Saul Black
World
Suffer
Delusions
Tongue
Tongues
Express
Condemned
Poet
Occasional
Suffering
Delusion
Find
Poets
Brac
Human
Mad
Bric
Humans
Lots
Brics

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One develops an instinct for letting silence do the heavy lifting. In the three, four, five seconds that passed without either of us speaking, the many ways the conversation could go came and went like time-lapse film of flowers blooming and dying.
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Pain is beyond reason, an obliterating giant stupidity to which all your history of jokes and nuance and ideas and caresses is nothing, simply nothing.
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Kneecaps only exist to get hit with claw-hammers grace only exists to be fallen from.
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Coffee justifies the existence of the word 'aroma'.
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That's what happens when you keep a secret from someone you love: you start to hate them for allowing you to prove your own willingness to deceive them.
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Life compulsively dangled the possibility of life. Life, the dramatist on speed. Life, that couldn't stop with its foreshadows and ironies and symbols and clues, its wretched jokes and false endings and twists. Life with its hopeless addiction to plot.
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One day the ordinariness will be terminally punctuated by the extraordinary full stop of death.
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You think God will never forgive you, but the only God is beauty and beauty always forgives. It forgives with its infinite indifference.
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I'm an American. We're a people diseased with progress.
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When I see gurgling retarded children (that's God's doing, by the way, not mine) happily styling their hair with their own stinking mards, I think of Adam in those pre-marital days. I know he's your great-to-the-nth-degree-granddad and all - but I'm afraid he was rather an imbecile.
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Only meaning can make a difference and we all know there's no meaning. All stories express a desire for meaning, not meaning itself. Therefore any difference knowing the story makes is a delusion.
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Your ideal possession candidate's a thirteen-year-old recently orphaned schizophrenic girl three days away from her period on her way to see the shrink with whom she's romantically besotted.
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The first thing to say about Eve is that she was a big improvement on the Adam design, or that Adam was an extremely misguided variation on the Eve design. (Consider testicles. Two concentrated nuclei of absolute vulnerability. Where? Dangling between the legs. I rest my case.)
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Life's generally artless ... but it does get these occasional hard-ons for plot. It connects things, nefariously, behind your back, and before you know it you're in the final act of a lousy movie.
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Once you've stopped loving someone breaking his or her heart's just an unpleasant chore you have to get behind you. My God, you really don't love me anymore, do you? No matter your decency the victim's incredulity's potentially hilarious. You manage not to laugh.
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My mother once told me she thought hell would be nothing more than being given a glimpse of God--then having it taken away, forever.
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Life is nothing but a statement of what happens to be.
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What interests me is love, sex, death, cruelty, compassion and the desire for meaning in an apparently godless universe. In other words the human condition.
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I'm in love, truly, madly, deeply in love with perception.
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Words betrayed her: beautiful butterflies in her mind dead moths when she opened her mouth for their release into the world.
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